The Price of Admission
by INMH
Summary: There are certain requirements to become a Greaser. Johnny Vincent is certain he won't have any problems getting in. Warning: Language, Mild Blood.


Price of Admission  
**Rating:** PG/K+  
**Genre:** Drama/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort  
**Summary:** There are certain requirements to become a Greaser. Johnny Vincent is certain he won't have any problems getting in. Warning: Language, Mild blood.  
**Author's Note:** I so badly want to do some character exploration now that I'm back in the fandom.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bully. It belongs to Rockstar Games.

[-][-][-]

There are certain requirements one has to meet to become a Greaser.

It takes more than just living in New Coventry, more than wearing a leather jacket and slicking back your hair and acting like a tough guy. You have to _prove_ that you're tough to be one of them.

Johnny Vincent isn't worried, because at ten (and a half, but Ralph Donatelli says that halves and quarters are things little kids use to make themselves sound older so he doesn't specify anymore), he figures he's pretty tough.

His dad was a bouncer in Liberty City, and taught Johnny plenty of moves before he and Johnny's mom got shipped off to prison for… Well, it's a long list of things, and does it really matter? Gone is gone. But anyway, Johnny knows how to fight, and Johnny's small and fast and can duck and dodge like a pro. He fights on the street and fights at school and fights in plenty of other situations too, and so Johnny _knows_ that he's tough.

Now he has to prove it, because he's starting school at Bullworth next week and he wants, he _needs_ to be a Greaser. He's been looking forward to this since he was five years-old.

Don Parker, the head Greaser, is tall and strong and confident. To the Greasers, Johnny, and all the other kids that aspire to join the clique, he walks on water. In the poor lighting of the old tenements, he looks intimidating- well, only a little, because Johnny knows that he's got no reason to be intimidated. "So, Vincent- you want to be one of us?"

Johnny nods, solemn. "I do."

"You think you got what it takes?"

Johnny smiles a little. "Yeah."

"Cause we-" Don gestures around to the assembled Greasers, some of whom grin at Johnny. Whether or not they are welcoming or skeptical of his presence, Johnny isn't certain. "-we're pretty tough. And you're a bit young."

Johnny frowns, and then puffs up a little. "I can handle it."

There's a giggle from one of the boys in the circle, and one of the three girls present elbows him in the side.

But Don doesn't react to it, grinning and slapping Johnny on the shoulder. Johnny goes stiff in awe: His idol is _touching him_. "I know it, man. You got the makings of a great Greaser in you- I see it." He steps back and starts to explain. "So what you gotta do is prove your bravery a little. We've all been there, we've all done it. Here's what you're gonna do…"

Johnny listens with rapt attention, and can already see himself as a member of the circle rather than the center of it.

The task is simple:

Break into the Leftwood Sports store in the Vale and steal three different balls- the kind is irrelevant, so long as none are the same.

For older Greasers- and Bullworth students in general- theft is no great oddity. But at ten, Johnny doesn't even know if he's ever stolen anything before (he keeps that to himself, though). The older kids are accustomed to brushes with the law and authority figures; but while he's no angel, Johnny's never done anything truly _illegal_ before.

As if that isn't enough, there's a reason that Don has chosen this particular store: Evidently the Leftwood chain is, in part, owned by the Taylor family. Johnny has, in only a week at his new school, had a brush with their incredibly unpleasant son Bif and his equally unpleasant friend Derby Harrington. As the archenemies of the Greasers, any Prep establishment (mostly in the Vale) is fair game.

Only Don and three others go with Johnny to the store, because it's nighttime and they'd attract way more attention if everyone came. "'Sides, we kinda have a reputation in this part of town." Don says with a roguish smile. They have a reputation _everywhere_ in Bullworth, but it's strongest in Old Bullworth Vale, full to the brim with rich, Preppie snobs.

They go through an alleyway until they get to the back of the store. It's probably about nine o' clock, and most of the businesses, have shut down by now. The girl that came with them, Tammy, beckons Johnny over to the door and talks him through picking the lock, handing him a bobby-pin to do it with.

"That's the only help we can give you, squirt." She says once the lock has clicked. "From here on out, you're on your own."

Johnny looks to Don, who nods. "Stay quiet," He advises. "And if you hear an alarm, book it. Got it?"

"Got it."

"All right. Good luck, kid. And don't get caught!"

[-][-][-]

There's a security guard patrolling the store. Don and the others didn't say there would be a guard.

It brings Johnny up short. Maneuvering through the dark storage room at the back of the store had been thrilling, heart-pounding, but more in a I'm-about-to-be-a-Greaser kind of way than an oh-crap-I'm-screwed way. He didn't _really_ think that there was a chance that he would get caught, because- well- okay, maybe he should have rethought that part. Greasers got into trouble, so yeah, maybe he should have guessed that there would be a real risk of trouble during initiation too?

Part of Johnny wants to turn around and slink out, because he can picture all too clearly what his grandma and grandpa will say if he not only gets in trouble, but _arrested_ in his first week of school. Can he get expelled for this too? If so, that means he's going to the public school two towns over and all chances of Greaser-hood will be shot.

He's been waiting for this for so long. He can't, for the life of him, picture a life in which he is _not_ a Greaser. And he's not going to be a Greaser if he can't show the older kids that he can play ball with the rest of them. And Johnny's not a baby- Johnny is _tough._ He can handle some two-bit rent-a-cop.

He takes a deep breath, and creeps out from behind the counter.

Johnny's never had a greater rush. He has _never_ been so close to being into such major trouble; there's a guard less than ten feet away from him, and he's darting between bins of hockey-sticks and fishing-poles. The guy has no idea that he's there! Johnny is practically invisible! At ten Johnny only has so much bravado, but it inflates considerably at the idea that he is outsmarting, out maneuvering an adult; sort of.

The basket of baseballs is in sight. It is easily three or four feet-tall and only two feet wide, enough for him to hide behind as he gets a ball. Johnny is reasonably certain that he can see some soccer balls past it as well, just to the right on a shelf. There have to be other kinds of balls in the same area too.

He's got this. All he has to do is get what he needs without being seen, and get out through the storage room the same way he got in.

He's _got it._

[-][-][-]

As it turns out, Johnny doesn't have it.

In fact, things go so bad so fast that it makes his head spin.

It's that damn bravado, that sense of confidence that messes him over in the end; in retrospect he sees how _stupid_ he was, sees that he should have been more careful, not gotten so full of himself.

What happens is this: Johnny goes shooting over to the basket full of baseballs, and manages to slide behind it. There are so many in the basket, piling up over the top in fact, so obviously he won't have any trouble getting one, right? Johnny reaches up and carelessly plucks one from the pile.

Problem is, he doesn't really look as he does it, and plucks one ball that's supporting a few others. His confidence is abruptly replaced by sharp, heart-stopping panic when five or six baseballs fall out of the bin, bouncing audibly once they hit the floor. Naturally, the sounds attract the attention of the security guard, and Johnny freezes when the beam of his flashlight lands on and right next to the bin.

His next great mistake is moving- or at least, moving too quickly. Johnny goes to dart in the opposite direction, meaning to run for cover in a nearby aisle. But as it so happens, the bin holding the baseballs is made of a thick wire mesh; and because Johnny is pressed right up against it, his jacket catches on the some part of the wire. Those baseballs must be lighter than he thought, because the entire basket comes down on top of him.

It's noisy, and unless the guard is stupid, there's no way he doesn't know that there's an intruder in the store.

Johnny's next mistake is born of panic and carelessness. In an effort to scramble out from under the basket before the guard can yank him out, his right pant-leg gets caught on the wire as well, and not only do they rip, but Johnny feels the wire cut into his knee and shin painfully and he yowls.

He manages to scramble out from under the wreckage, and tries to locate an escape route in an otherwise incredibly dark store only to feel a rough hand grab the back of his neck and jacket.

[-][-][-]

Johnny is in so, _so_ much trouble.

It sounds like this isn't the first time the guard has had to lecture someone (leading him to wonder if maybe Don and the other Greasers have messed with the store before). He tells Johnny that he's calling the cops, that he's going to get arrested, that he better believe that his parents are getting called, etcetera, etcetera.

Somewhere in the midst of the lecture, tears start crawling down Johnny's cheeks and it takes everything he has not to bawl. His leg hurts really badly and he is in so, _so_ much trouble, his grandparents is going to be so mad at him, and there's no way Crabblesnitch isn't going to find out which brings back the question of whether or not Johnny can get expelled over this-?

Abruptly, an alarm goes off.

In his surprise, he lets go of Johnny, who immediately bolts. Something cracks behind him, and a putrid smell rises- a stink bomb.

"Kid! Kid! _Hey, kid!_" Someone calls frantically. Johnny skids to a stop and has to look around to realize that the voice is coming from the main door. Someone is standing there, someone not much bigger than him but with the distinctive New Coventry accent to his voice. "Come on! We gotta go!"

Johnny runs for the door, right leg stinging with every step, and there is no greater relief than when he gets outside and feels cool air. He can still hear the guard coughing inside the store.

Whoever it is grabs him, and they run like hell.

[-][-][-]

They end up in the bushes near the boxing gym the older Preps like to hang out at.

"Woulda been the docks, but I figured they might look there first," Says Johnny's rescuer.

It's Ricky Pucino. He's a year older than Johnny and already initiated into the Greasers, and it shows; he looks so much like them, with his jean jacket and his slicked-back hair. It makes him look older than eleven. Tougher.

"I saw the guard and told the others," The other boy says, only a little breathless (but then, he isn't crying). "Don and them are making sure no one follows us. They didn't know there'd be security." Johnny is slightly comforted by that. For a moment, he was beginning to suspect that maybe it had been a deliberate set-up where he had no possible chance of success; weeding out the babies, and all that. "You alright?"

Johnny furiously, frantically wipes his face and looks away. Crying is humiliating, crying is not acceptable. Crying is not _tough_, and Greasers are tough. "'M fine," He grunts. Then, as an afterthought, "Thanks."

"Hey, no problem." Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny sees Ricky nod towards his injured leg. "How's that?" Johnny glances down at his leg. There's blood, but not too much. Without waiting for a response, Ricky pulls a handkerchief (clean, from the looks of it) out of his pocket and presses it over the cut. It goes from pristine to red quickly, and Johnny kind of feels bad that it's probably ruined now. "There. It'll keep you from dripping all over the place for now."

"Thanks. Sorry about the blood."

Ricky laughs. "Dude, you should see some of the hankies Don and the others go through on a regular basis. They get their noses knocked in and bleed all over the place all the time." He pointed to Johnny's leg again. Still, you should probably get that fixed up by the nurse. It'll leave an _awesome_ scar."

Johnny perks up a little. "You think?"

"Yeah, definitely." He jams his hands into his pockets and jerks his head towards the academy, and they start walking. "Don and the others'll be impressed."

"Really?" Johnny is skeptical, and his mood plummets again. Tears burn in his eyes again, but he forces them back. "I botched it. I totally botched it. I only got one ball, and I got caught by a cop. Now Don and the others might get caught too, and it'll be because I'm a klutz."

"Nah, man, that's not the point," Ricky chuckles, slinging an arm around Johnny's shoulders. "Doesn't matter if you fail, or if you get caught; the point's that you had the balls to do it in the first place, and to not rat out your friends if you get caught. You went through with it, and I didn't hear you rat. Besides, it's like I said: Don didn't know there'd be security, or he never woulda sent you in there. You gotta be a Greaser to get into the _real_ trouble." He grinned.

Johnny's starting to feel a little better, but he's still uncertain. "You're sure they won't be mad?"

Ricky snorts. "Nah. They get themselves into worse scrapes over less. Besides, Don's got a soft-spot for little wanna-be Greasers. You'll be fine." He gives Johnny a friendly little shake. "Relax! If he doesn't make you a Greaser tonight, he'll do it tomorrow when the heat's died down."

Johnny thinks about that for a second, and then pulls the baseball out of his pocket and rolls it in his hands. "I gotta give this to Don?"

Ricky shrugs. "He'll probably just look at it. Why?"

Johnny smirked. "After all the trouble I went through getting it, I think I wanna keep it."

[-][-][-]

True to Ricky's word, Don declares Johnny a Greaser the next day.

Johnny decides that it was worth it.

-End


End file.
